


a sturdier kind of happiness

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Background Pynch Engagement, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Off-Screen Drunken Shenanigans, Off-Screen Sarchengsey Break-Up, On-Screen Political Squabbles and Emotional Constipation, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-08 03:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14095881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: Ashley picks up on what's almost certainly the last ring before Declan gets sent to voicemail, which is his exact kind of power play. He'ssoproud of her."Don't laugh," he says, not even bothering with a greeting."Oh, Declan," she says, warm but exasperated. "I'm absolutely going to laugh, so you might as well get it over with."This is pretty much the best he's going to get, so he says, "I woke up wearing a wedding band this morning." He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, wishing he could sink into it and wake up in a parallel universe where he's not somehow giving Ronan's high school self a run for his money in the repressed fuck-up department. He opens his eyes to find that he's still resolutely stuck in his own life. "And Gansey was in bed next to me."





	a sturdier kind of happiness

**Author's Note:**

> So my major hesitation with this was that while I don't think it's objectively OOC to have a pynch bachelor party set in Vegas, it's also not like, a given. But there wasn't a point in this story where it made sense to stop and say, "Okay, this is everything that's happened post-canon, here's how their personalities have developed, and here are their motivations," so just go with whatever backstory works for you personally to get us to joint Vegas bachelor party. Maybe Ronan is self-conscious about being such a boring homebody. Maybe Matthew is on a spiritual retreat in the desert nearby and they came to him. Like, follow your heart, you know. 
> 
> Heads up for internalized homophobia that isn't ever really conceived of or acknowledged as such but the world exists and provides context for our behaviors. Also excessive alcohol consumption, obviously, it's a Vegas wedding fic.
> 
> The title is from _Dept. of Speculation_ by Jenny Offill and the full quote is
>
>> For years, I kept a Post-it note above my desk. WORK NOT LOVE! was what it said. It seemed a sturdier kind of happiness.
> 
> Which I think we can all agree is very Declan to a degree that may honestly make this a cheap shot. 

Declan isn't ordinarily a heavy drinker, but he is, after all, at a bachelor party, and his relationship with Ronan is still wobbly enough that he doesn't want to be the one to bring down the mood. Besides, Ronan chose Gansey as his best man, which was quite possibly  _the_ most predictable decision of all time but still made Declan bite a hole in his cheek when he found out. Gansey's drinking a lot too, and they're drawn together because of it, and because they're the only guests interested in having a well-reasoned, only occasionally contentious discussion about compulsory voting. Declan should probably ask if he's all right, but neither of them is that type of person, inclined to public displays of vulnerability. Besides, as out of the loop as Declan is, the source of the tension is still obvious. Gansey was dating Sargent or Cheng (or both), and now they're dating each other and trying not to shove it in his face with all the grace and restraint of besotted circus elephants. It's terrible to look at. Gansey was always so together, so frustratingly polished, in exactly the way Declan aspires to and will never quite achieve. 

Declan accepts every shot put in front of him and then some, and he wakes up the next day dry-mouthed and fuzzy-headed with an arm slung over his waist. 

Declan is still alive because he moves slowly and methodically—he certainly never developed a knack for the other parts of selling dreams. He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even while he takes stock. The last thing he remembers is Gansey saying he had a foolproof blackjack system and promptly losing a sum of money that made Parrish call it a night. Declan isn't wearing a shirt but still has one shoe on. Based on the cologne that's settled around him, he's in bed with a man, or else a butch lesbian. He's rooting rather strongly for the latter, as then it won't be  _his_ sexuality crisis on display. 

He opens his eyes slowly, out of a mix of caution and dread. The hand draped over him is decidedly masculine and wearing a burnished gold ring. So not one of Declan's prouder moments, then. Not his worst, either, whatever that says about him. He slides out of bed, keeping his eyes forward. Every second that he doesn't turn around is one second more he gets to spend pretending he just drank a little too much and passed out, alone, in his hotel room. He hasn't made it very far when he steps on a piece of paper. His eyes take a moment to focus because of all of the embellishments on the page, curlicues and splotches of glitter that seem to have been applied by hand. Finally, he makes out his name, and the name of the man asleep behind him, and he locks himself in the bathroom. 

He braces himself against the sink. His left hand looks alien with the ring on it. It's the hand of someone much dumber than he's ever imagined himself to be. The exhaust fan came on automatically, but he runs the sink and bath as well, just for a bit more cover, and calls Ashley. She's supposed to be his date to the wedding even though she came out as a lesbian halfway through her high school valedictorian speech and he spent the summer before college fielding a bunch of bro-y, faux-good-natured jokes about having "turned" her in addition to threats from hitmen and impatient buyers. She picks up on what's almost certainly the last ring before he gets sent to voicemail, which is his exact kind of power play. He's  _so_  proud of her. 

"Don't laugh," he says, not even bothering with a greeting. 

"Oh, Declan," she says, warm but exasperated. "I'm absolutely going to laugh, so you might as well get it over with." 

This is pretty much the best he's going to get, so he says, "I woke up wearing a wedding band this morning." He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, wishing he could sink into it and wake up in a parallel universe where he's not somehow giving Ronan's high school self a run for his money in the repressed fuck-up department. He opens his eyes to find that he's still resolutely stuck in his own life. "And Gansey was in bed next to me." 

Ashley shrieks with laughter for a minute straight, which Declan knows for a fact because he has to pull the phone from his ear to keep his brain from exploding, and from there it's a short leap to timing her. 1:13 exactly. 

"Are you finished?" he asks when she's finally gasping to a halt. 

"Oh my God. Thank you for that." She giggles a few more times, and then clears her throat. "So I get that this isn't, like, the point, and I have, just, so many thoughts, but I do need you to know that it's nearly three p.m., and even accounting for an entire hourof crisis, that doesn't put you anywhere near morning. It's just—" She gets a little louder in response to Declan's groan. "It's just that I know how seriously you take yourself, and I would hate for you to sound stupid when you recount this story to your grandkids." 

" _Ashley_." 

"Oh, don't take that aggrieved elder tone with me. I didn't get drunk and marry my high school crush." 

Declan holds his breath and counts to ten. "I don't know why I called you." 

"Because I'm your best friend. Note that I didn't say  _only_ because I don't want to kick you when you're down." Declan lifts his head from the mirror and thunks it back into place. "Okay, okay, sorry. But oh my God, I told you! I told you!  Didn't I say, over and over, 'Declan, if you two weren't embroiled in all this totally  _non_ -adolescent drama, you'd be alternately making out and boring each other to tears'? And then you said, 'Ashley, you're wrong, and I know this because I'm  _obviously_  a genius at interpersonal relations, the proof of this being how I literally can't have a conversation with my brother without getting punched in the face.'" 

Declan didn't feel nauseous when he woke up, but it's coming now. Splashing water on his face seems like a bit too much work, but he holds a damp hand to his forehead. " _Please_  stop talking." 

"Not a chance." Ashley's voice goes lower, conspiratorial. "So, did you guys have sex?" 

"No!" 

Ashley laughs again. "Oh my God, how is that even  _more_ embarrassing?" 

"Okay, I'm hanging up. Thank you, this has been so productive." Declan sits on the edge of the tub, which is half-full even though he left the drain open. Thinking of the tangle of strangers' hair lurking in the pipes doesn't help with his nausea, but it's still better than Ashley's prurient interest.  

"Hold on, hold on. Look, I know you're freaking out, and you probably should be. But he was right there with you last night, so clearly you aren't the only idiot who let an adolescent infatuation get the better of him. It's embarrassing, don't get me wrong but it's going to be fine. Now act like an adult who's had a gun pointed at his head more than once. This is  _so_  not the scariest thing you've ever had to deal with." 

Declan sighs. "I guess you're right." 

"Of course I'm right. Go out there and make up with your husband. Text me when you've consummated." Ashley hangs up before Declan can tell her to fuck off. He says it aloud anyway, just for the split second of satisfaction. 

She's right, though. Not about the mocking references to his marriage, but about the fact that he can handle it. It's just that being a criminal was a lot of things, but almost never gut-wrenchingly humiliating. He gives himself permission to hide in the bathroom until he hears Gansey stirring, and then a few minutes longer.  

Gansey not only still has his shirt on, but appears to have layered Declan's over it, along with a hoodie from a college no one in the wedding party went to. His hair is sticking up on one side and matted on the other, yet he somehow still looks like he might roll out of bed and run for Senate. "So." He holds up his left hand. "It's on the wrong finger, but the intent seems unambiguous. Particularly in light of the marriage certificate I found on the floor." 

Declan sinks into the chair farthest from the bed. He shouldn't have let Ashley talk him into facing his problems like some kind of idiot. He steels himself to ask, "What do you remember from last night?" 

"I remember drinks," Gansey says, like he's really digging deep. Declan just barely doesn't roll his eyes. "Cards. It was really loud." 

"Do you remember anything  _helpful_? Because I don't need to be reminded that we were in a casino." 

Gansey's face goes pinched and cold. "I'm sorry that this has never happened to me before and I don't exactly know the protocol. What do  _you_  remember then?" 

He remembers being with Gansey long after everyone else had called it a night—for all that Ronan played the rebel in high school, he and Parrish have settled into a predictable, largely sober domesticity. He remembers bits and pieces of the argument that nearly got them removed from the casino floor, about whether the Constitution is a living document. He remembers feeling warm and secure and like he really, actually, belonged. "Nothing useful, but at least I know that." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Any chance I could get my shirt back?" 

" _Oh._  Oh my God." Gansey wrestles out of the hoodie and the top shirt with something significantly short of his usual grace. He's blushing sort of splotchily, but it doesn't make him any less attractive. "That's really embarrassing. I don't remember..." He trails off, perhaps because he's realized that claiming memory loss isn't productive or novel in their current situation. He tosses the shirt over, and Declan has it halfway on before he realizes that they're in his room with his suitcase, meaning he has access to a full range of shirts that don't smell like Gansey. 

Neither of them speaks for a long time. Declan wants to say something snide like  _So much for that vaunted old money charm_ , as if he isn't making the same studied eye contact with the carpet. 

"These are nice rings," Gansey says finally. He pulls his up over his second knuckle and then slips it back into place. "I wonder where we got them so late at night." 

"Is that really our most pressing concern right now?" 

"Well, it's not  _ir_ relevant. If we could retrace our steps, it might help us figure out exactly what happened last night." 

"Our flight is in a few hours; we can't spend all day Nancy Drewing our way through Las Vegas.  That'll be a dead giveaway that something's wrong." 

Gansey looks at Declan like he's suggested something unforgivable like skipping the wedding entirely, or murder. "You aren't planning to tell them?" 

"Of course not. I want to get this annulled and then take the secret to my grave." 

Gansey makes a face, one that says clearly enough that Declan won't be getting his way on this. "We'll table it until we know what we would even be telling people. Now, do you know where my phone is? I understand that it isn't  _our most pressing concern_ , but it ought to be much more easily resolved than—" He looks around the hotel room with a despairing air. "Anything else." 

This turns out to be much too optimistic, but Declan eventually finds the phone, dead, buried deep in the couch. When he hands it over, Gansey is still opening and closing drawers with the aimlessness of someone whose parents hired maids because their house wasn't the secret base of operations for a poorly-managed criminal enterprise. Gansey plugs it in and hovers over it with his finger pressed to the power button until the screen finally lights up. 

"I have a lot of missed calls," he says, his voice strained. "Do you mind?" He's turning away as he asks, phone already tight against his ear. Declan watches the tension in the back of his neck as he listens to his messages, and then as he says, still facing the other way, "That was my mom. One of her aides has a Google Alert set up for my name." 

"And?" Declan asks, because he can imagine the thrust of what Gansey's going to say next, and he wants to drag out these last moments of life as he knows it. 

" _And_ ," Gansey says, small and miserable, "apparently, the chapel posts all of their wedding videos online." 

Declan shuts his eyes so he won't have to watch everything he's ever valued go up in smoke. His political ambitions, his relationship with Ronan, his claim to even a scrap of dignity. He wants to hit something, or throw something, or put his head between his knees and hyperventilate. Every enemy he's ever had, from felons to the douche who sat behind in a freshman writing seminar, is going to have a field day with this. 

"We should probably watch the video," Gansey says. "Then we'll know exactly what we're up against." 

Declan is pretty sure he will actually die of shame if he has to watch himself impaired and giggly with Gansey and an Elvis impersonator. But if he's learned anything from the ridiculous mess of his life up to the age of twenty-one, it's that ignoring problems gets you brutally murdered. He crosses the room to pull his laptop from his bag, conscious of the closing distance between him and Gansey. He sets the computer up in the middle of the bed and sits as close to the edge as he can get without falling off. 

Once he's gone through the arduous process of connecting to the hotel's wifi, he asks, "What's the name of the chapel?" 

Gansey reads off of the marriage certificate, "'Cupids Wedding Chapel and Mini-Golf Experience.'" Declan groans as he types it in. "There's no apostrophe, by the way, in 'Cupids.' So maybe we're about to find that our wedding was officiated by an entire collection of cherubim." Gansey sounds normal when he says it, which shames Declan out of flinching or saying something rude about how Gansey must have been the one to choose the spot of their demise. Instead, he focuses on the computer screen as if he can will it to put him out of his misery. 

The video starts with a blurry view of another couple saying their vows promptly goes blank. Declan runs his cursor over the bar at the bottom until the preview shows Gansey's face. Then, fighting the urge to slam the laptop closed and fling it in the direction of the window, he sets the video back thirty seconds and waits out the nothingness until suddenly they appear, arms around each other's waists. They both seem dazed, more focused on keeping their footing than giving away any clue as to why the hell this happened. Neither of them stumbles, which is a blessing, and then, finally, they're at the altar. 

The real Gansey makes a noise when their officiant comes into view, something halfway between a snort and a groan of despair. They were married, apparently, by a drag queen with a Reagan mask strapped over her bouncy blonde wig. Declan opens the chapel's website on his phone so that he won't have to look at the glassy, blissful expression that has overtaken his counterpart's face. Drag Reagan is one of their more popular packages, something they introduced after gay marriage was legalized in Nevada. 

The footage has the feel of a surveillance tape more than a cherished memento, but Gansey looks directly into the lens with all the surety of a politician's offspring. The virtual versions of them barely seem drunk at all, now that they've made their way up the aisle and have no responsibilities other than staring blankly into each other's eyes. They're holding hands as well, which shouldn't make Declan feel flustered, but does. 

"We look really happy," Gansey says. The bed feels smaller than it did a few minutes ago. 

"We were drunk," Declan says, hoping to head this train of thought off as quickly as possible. "That's how drunk people  _look_." 

"Of course. It's just—" Declan doesn't get to find out what, exactly, it's  _just_ , because Gansey goes abruptly and stonily silent. As every interaction between them now is basically torture, Declan doesn't push. 

On screen, they're exchanging rings and  _I do_ s. It's hard to tell—the video quality is about what one would expect from a chapel that needs to supplement its income with mini golf—but Declan is almost certain he put the ring on the right finger, that any subsequent appendage confusion was Gansey's. He doesn't point it out. They kiss, and if they'd been doing a good job keeping themselves in check before, that all goes out the window. It feels like the kind of thing they should both remember. 

Gansey clears his throat. "My mother—" he starts, which is like a splash of cold water to the face. "My mother's chief of staff actually thinks it could be good for her. I'm sure they aren't thrilled about the Reagan mask, but she's been wanting to appeal more to centrists, and this could help without requiring a substantive policy shift." 

"Oh, good, well as long as it helps your mother deceive voters about her actual beliefs and intentions." 

Gansey sighs. "I'm just trying to communicate that this doesn't have to be as catastrophic as you think." He chews on the ragged skin around his thumbnail, eyes locked on the now-black screen. "We didn't even seem that drunk." Declan opens his mouth to protest, and Gansey hurries on, "I know we  _were_. But wouldn't it be so much more humiliating if one of us vomited on-camera? As it is, sure, it's embarrassing, but it's far from the worst thing in the world." Declan shrugs. He doesn't want to say no, that it would be better if they were more visibly intoxicated. What  _this_ communicates is that his feelings were lurking much closer to the surface than he'd even realized. Gansey watches him like he's something to solve, and then all at once goes soft and understanding. "But you aren't out yet. Of course you're not; I would know." 

Declan shrugs and allows this to stand, although if he were being honest, he would quibble with  _yet._ He's a card-carrying member of every liberal organization with enough funding to send a decently-written email or outfit volunteers with T-shirts and clipboards. He knows very well that there's nothing wrongwith being gay, or bi, or whatever. He just isn't interested. Maybe there's something to be said for being his best and truest self, but that has never been one of his ambitions. What he wants now is easy. He wants an attractive wife, ideally but not necessarily from a politically advantageous family, into him enough to sate his ego but not so into him that it'll be a lot of work. He wants the life that was basically promised to him when he was born white and male to a father worth millions. He knows better than to say that aloud or anything, but he only just stopped feeling like he was drowning maybe a year and a half ago. Even if Gansey were a woman, he would be too much goddamn effort.  

Gansey's back straightens and his jaw sets. It's a look Declan has seen him give Ronan and all his friends; it's a look Declan has never had directed at himself. It's the  _I'm going to fix this for you_  look. Declan suspects that he ought to be made indignant by the implication that he can't solve his own problems. But it's a relief, honestly, to let someone else take over. Gansey says after not-that-much thought, like all he ever needed was the right motivation, "We'll buy the rights to the video, have it taken down. Then, if anyone ever finds out about it, there's nothing stopping us from playing the whole thing off as a joke. But between the two of us, we must have a contact who could make sure the original marriage certificate gets 'lost,' don't you think?" Gansey chews on the inside of his cheek. "And if you ever wanted to talk about it..." 

Declan consciously puts on the sort of glad-handing, politicking air Gansey will see right through when he says, "I really appreciate the offer, but I'm fine." 

Gansey continues to look at him like a lost dog. "It's just that I know how hard it is. How much the pressure can get to you." 

Declan snorts. "My parents are dead. One of my brothers is gay, and the other is the sweetest kid alive and the product of the gay one's subconscious. No one has ever faced  _less_ social pressure with regards to coming out." 

"Be that as it may," Gansey says, and clears his throat. "I should make some calls, see what can be done about the video." He takes the courtesy pen and pad of paper and disappears into the bathroom. Declan scrolls through his contacts, trying to decide whether he knows anyone he would willingly allow to have leverage over him. He doesn't, so he deletes Ashley's texted demands for updates one by one and swipes away the interminable notifications for the group message he was added to when he agreed to this trip.  

Gansey returns about a half hour later looking so pleased with himself that nothing really needs to be said, but he says anyway, "We're not married anymore. We never were. And that video won't ever see the light of day." 

It's a good thing, but Declan doesn't feel as relieved as he thought he would. He touches his ring but doesn't take it off. "Thank you." 

Gansey sits back down on the bed, much closer than before. It's clear that he's waiting for a particular response, but Declan doesn't know what.  He's just started to work himself up into a fit of righteous indignation about how he already said thank you and isn't going to  _grovel_  when Gansey says, "I was terribly attracted to you in high school, you know." 

It's ridiculous, objectively, to have once kept it together while being threatened with evisceration-by-umbrella and to be losing it now, in a lavish hotel room that doesn't even look like two blacked-out newlyweds collapsed in it last night. So Declan isn't losing it, because he isn't a ridiculous person. He repeats, flat and charmless, "Terribly?" 

"Sure," Gansey says, like the admission costs him nothing. "We had a lot in common. I know how it is when you don't fit with your family. And now." He shrugs, twisting the ring on his finger. "I can't deny that things could have gone better back then, but it says a lot that you were willing to sacrifice your relationship with Ronan to do what you thought was best for him. I think it was really brave. Truly kind." 

Kind isn't a word Declan has ever had applied to him, and he doesn't particularly think it fits, but he finds that he likes it, at least coming from Gansey. What he likes more is the revelation that Gansey has been thinking about him when he isn't around.  

He knows if he kisses Gansey right now, Gansey will kiss him back. He also knows that if he kisses Gansey, it will set something in motion that he really doesn't have the energy or emotional depth for. So maybe he's still a little drunk, then, or maybe he just isn't as smart as he thinks he is. Gansey's hand has been on his shoulder for an undefined amount of time, and it's warm and large and Declan wishes he were holding it again.  

Gansey is exactly as good a kisser as Declan figured he'd be, exactly as good as he is at everything else. It's honestly kind of irritating, even in the moment. Everyone else has to make do with the trappings of average personhood while Gansey has literally every advantage at his disposal.  

After a while, Gansey pulls back to say, "This doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don't want it to. Even though I think 'matrimony' and 'hook-up' are sort of mutually exclusive, if we're being totally honest. What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is 'no pressure.'" It takes him a long time to get this out, because Declan kisses him about every third word. He's equal parts bored by the navel-gazing and charmed by being treated like a blushing virgin who needs to be told that lots of boys don't call you the next day. Also, he can't stop thinking about Gansey's lips shaping around the word "hook-up." 

Declan doesn't want to say, "It can mean whatever you want it to mean if you  _shut up_ ," because he can't tell where it will land on the dismissive-needy spectrum. It sounds rude enough in his head, but there's the distinct possibility that it will come out breathy. He's faced plenty of indignities, but that would be unlivable. He says instead, "Are you sure? Because it seems like you  _really_  want to talk about it." 

"I just don't want you to feel pushed into anything you aren't comfortable with." 

Declan pulls back a little farther, smirks, says, "Gansey, do I seemlike someone who gets pushed into things he isn't comfortable with?" His hair, which survived a night out and a wedding, is mussed and curling from Gansey's hands running through it.  

At this, Gansey detaches entirely, his hands dropping away. He looks miserable, tormented. "You spent all of high school as a criminal liaison for your father. You seem  _exactly_  like someone who gets pushed into things he isn't comfortable with. And now, with everything that happened last night, and the pressure of sorting it out, it would make sense if you didn't know quite where your boundaries lay." 

There isn't a mature, reasonable way to protest that he isn't a child, so Declan doesn't bother. He says instead, "You can't actually be this neurotic. You're pretty far from my first, you know." 

"But is this your first time with another man?" Gansey asks. Declan doesn't say anything. Lying to get Gansey to keep making out with him would be both profoundly, humiliatingly high school, and firmly across the line, even if Gansey's hang-ups are ridiculous. Gansey says, "Exactly," somehow managing to sound both smug and mournful. "And I do like you. That's why I don't want to hurt you. So if we're doing—whatever this is, there's probably a conversation we ought to have." 

"I'm not all that easy to hurt."  Declan doesn't come from a talk-it-out sort of family, and he knows Gansey doesn't either, so he can't see where all this emotional literacy is coming from all of a sudden. Never let it be said, though, that he doesn't know a lost cause when he sees one. He rolls his eyes to be sure he's communicated how completely unwarranted this is, and says, "Fine." 

"Fine like, 'Fine, we'll talk about it,' or like, 'Fine, I can't stop you from feeling that way, but it really isn't worth it to me'?" Declan sighs. Apparently, Gansey is  _exactly_  that neurotic. Gansey glares. "Excuse me for not finding monosyllabic answers very illuminating, Declan."  

Declan takes a breath. This is his last chance to change course and go back to living the life he's always wanted. "We don't have to talk right now, do we? Because we have bags to pack, planes to catch, and people to reassure that we didn't drown in our own vomit last night. Just doesn't seem like the right time for a contrived heart-to-heart." 

Gansey almost smiles. "It doesn't have to be right now." 

"Then  _fine,_ " Declan says, only slightly less irritably than before. "Later." Gansey does smile at this, bright and warm and infectious, and Declan bites his lip against the threat of doing the same. He manages, then and when Gansey puts a hand over his, pressing it against the sheets, but it's a very near thing. 


End file.
